Author: Cary Lou (HalfshellVenus)
Characters: Dean/OFC (Het, Crack, Badfic?)
Warning: Het! Always warn for Het. And leopards. And tentacles.
Summary: Dean totally finds the woman of his dreams, and it's epic.
Author's Notes: My first attempt at badfic, for the Wincon Badfic Idol competition. It's nowhere near as bad as it should be. The "adjacency of badness" and occurrence of TMI should be higher (and misspelling and bad grammar!), and you really need to be willing to totally confuse the audience. I bow to the masters, and hope you find this fun to read anyway. ;)
One day in October, Dean and Sam Winchester, who were brothers, drove in to the town of Laredo.
The town had a history—a gloomy doomed-cowboy kind of history—and it made Dean moody. So he dumped his baby brother off at a coffee shop so he could drive around and mope in manly privacy.
At a stoplight, the girl of his dreams pulled up in a white Jetta convertible. She had hair the color of shimmering Sugar Baby candies, and amethyst eyes as depthless and mysterious as a grape Jolly Rancher. Just one look at her taillights as she sped away from the corner, and Dean was smitten.
By the girl.
Though he suddenly realized her car was one helluva sweet ride too.
He followed her (but not in a stalkerish way) until she pulled into the parking lot of the No-Tell Motel.
"Damn, she wants my fine ass," Dean thought.
He roared in after her, and they opened their car doors and fell on each other like a sparkly vampire and his victim, drawn to the heat.
Her cherry-red lips were no match for his bubblegum-pink ones, and they kissed, their tongues probing and jockeying for dominance until Dean victoriously emerged with an anterior molar.
"Ooh, you're so strong," she breathed, and they fell on the bed together (inside the room, after Dean used Harry Loveshaft's credit card to pay at the front desk). Her plump peaks of maidenly magnificence were as soft as a velvet Elvis painting under Dean's calloused hands. She arched and writhed and backflipped under his skilled assault, and then he plowed her furrow with his thundering manflesh until the asbestos ceiling rained down snowy specks upon their sated satisfaction.
"What's your name, dollface?" Dean asked.
"Tambourlain," she said, and the sound of it was like bells ringing or snow chains on an abandoned highway. "Will I see you again?" she pouted, her head filled with a lifetime of empty promises numerous enough to fill a garbage barge on the Hudson.
Her answer was the sound of Dean's tires burning rubber as he tore out of the parking lot.
"Find anything interesting?" Sam asked, for it was he, at the coffee shop, where Dean had just now returned.
"Just a little piece of silk-lingerie salvation," Dean said, scarfing down the last of Sam's froofy croissant.
"Ewwww," Sam groaned, wondering where Dean's hands had been. "Why are we here again?"
"Hell if I know. Let's go see the Alamo instead."
And so they did, two men and their gleaming black chariot of growling phallic assertion.
"Tammy-Lynn," Dean murmured over the sounds of AC/DC.
He would never forget her.